Monday, August 27, 2007

Hell, for me, will be comprised of a special bundle of uncomfortable tediums, poorly prepared food and a tremendous amount of physical pain. At least, that will be my hell on earth. The scorching flesh and anguish of my soul may be a different matter altogether, although not much less bearable.

Allow me to describe the places that remind me of hell.

The humid be-dog-pooped mire that is my backyard, with a full two weeks worth of grass.

The five-block walk from my office to my parking garage at 8:30 PM when the street is still 95 degrees and smells distinctly like alcoholic barf and pee.

Cold french fries and bacon that tastes like bait.

Smooshing my thumb between the Costco cart and 50lbs of dogfood. It's irritating to think that 50 lbs. of dog food translates to roughly 100 lbs of dog poop in my stifling backyard.

Stepping, with my full weight, on a small lego creation. Right in the middle of my arch. In the dark.

The smell of damp air that reminds me I need to have my vents cleaned, which means I need to track down a vent-cleaner, which means I need to employ some contractor to come disappoint me for money.

Any phonecall to a customer service center.

Any phonecall that includes hold music.

Any phonecall that requires me to speak to a manager.

Any phonecall I receive on my cell phone for "Donny", who evidently runs a very successful drywalling business despite the fact that he hasn't updated any realtor in Dallas with his new cell phone number.

You could, of course, do like Aunt Kristen and make a game of it. Give your son a ziploc bag and offer him a nickel for every deuce he picks up in the backyard. Although he's pretty smart -- he'll probably negotiate for a dime per, and a shiatsu massage afterward.